


And she does not know which way to steer

by ashen_key



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Annie the Career, Backstory, Careers Have Issues, Character Study, Choices, F/M, Forced Prostitution, Mental Health Issues, Pre-Canon, Trauma, Underage Drinking, Victory Tour, see tags for warnings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-14
Updated: 2015-02-14
Packaged: 2018-03-12 21:50:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3356555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashen_key/pseuds/ashen_key
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The only thing Annie Cresta knows for certain about Finnick Odair is that the little boy who once stole his brother's hat for her has been gone for a long, long time. </p><p><i>Five times Annie tried to figure Finnick out, and one time she didn't have to</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And she does not know which way to steer

**Author's Note:**

  * For [JK Ashavah (ashavah)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashavah/gifts).



> Happy (belated) birthday! (And thank you so much for Finnick!characterization help ♥ )
> 
> Many, many thanks to [FiKate](http://archiveofourown.org/users/FiKate/pseuds/FiKate) for reading this over. Set pre-canon and features Annie as a (washed out) Career. Title comes from Loreena McKennitt's Kellswater: 
> 
>  
> 
> _Oh yonder there's a ship on the ocean_  
>  _And she does not know which way to steer_  
>  _From the east and the west she's a'blowing_  
>  _She reminds me of the charms of my dear._

i.

 

Before dawn, the docks are busy enough to hurt her ears and bright enough that she has to squint. But Annie is nine and a big girl now, so she just pulls her cap down and munches on her breakfast and waits for Momma and Uncle Cable to come back. Momma told her to sit on one of the crates on the deck and _try not to move_ , so that's just what she is gonna do. 

Except then she sees a boy with curly bronze hair. Quickly wrapping her pastry, Annie stands on her crate and puts her hands around her mouth.

“OI! ODAIR!” 

Finnick stops and turns around. It takes him a minute to find her, and that's only 'coz she waves at him. 

“WHAT?”

“YOUR BROTHER STOLE MY HAT!”

He stares at her. “DID NOT.”

“DID TOO.”

“SO-” he stops himself and strides over, his own hat on an angle he probably thinks is _jaunty_. Annie crosses her arms and glares at him. “So what's that on your head, then?” he demands. 

“....I got it back. But it was _rude._ ”

Finnick rocks back on his heels all, looking at her all intently like seagulls stare at things. She lifts her chin, keeps glaring. 

“ _Finnick_ , boy, whatcha you doin' here?” 

Annie jumps at the same time as Finnick, but he's already turning with a cheeky grin that makes him look like a little kid. 

“Got lost, Captain Soto,” he says.

Momma scoffs a little. “Go and get unlost, your dad's nearly headin' off.” 

“Yes, ma'am,” Finnick says, and tosses her a salute before darting off. 

Annie crinkles her nose as she stares after him. He hadn't said sorry, or yelled back, or even said _anything_. She's missed something. 

“Hey, Annie-bell,” Uncle Cable says, swinging himself down into the boat. “Ready to do some honest work?”

“Yep!” Annie jumps down from the crate. “We're gonna catch _all_ the shrimp.” 

Momma laughs, a little, as she walks into the cabin, but Annie just runs to the boat's stern to watch as they cast off. They're off, they're off, they are going to sail the wide, wide sea, and all thoughts of silly boys are left behind as the _Fenella_ pulls away. 

Except the trouble with tides is that everything comes back in, and when the Soto-Cresta crew have returned (and how Annie keeps saying that in her head, her last name's there so she's proper _crew_ ), Annie keeps her eye out for the Odairs' boat. Adeney started it by stealing her hat last week, but the Odair boys are _weird_ and Finnick looked at her like she was suddenly _interesting_ , and she doesn't know what that means. 

While Momma and Uncle Cable unload the boat, Annie sits on a bollard and watches the harbour. She couldn't see the _Coventina_ and she might have missed it, but probably not. Besides, she likes looking out over the harbour. All the ships and boats coming and going, the waves and the birds and the local dolphin pod begging for scraps. 

Something lands on her head. 

Annie yelps and grabs it, twisting her head around and then grabbing the bollard so she doesn't slip into the water. She manages to catch sight of a familiar head of bronze curls running away from her, but Finnick's too far away for her to yell after him. 

Scowling, she pulls the new weight from her head and then stares. 

It's Adeney Odair's hat. 

 

ii.

 

“Shouldn't you be in training?"

Annie turns to find Finnick perched on one of the boardwalk's benches. The sun isn't yet over the horizon but he's already wearing his dark tinted glasses. Or maybe he still hasn't taken them off from yesterday. Same clothes as yesterday, too, although he's lost his boots somewhere along with the ties on his waistcoat. 

“Shouldn't you?" she retorts. 

“I," Finnick says, very precisely, "will not be attending classes today. You'll have to find someone else to go over your spear-work.”

He sounds, Annie realises, _spectacularly_ drunk. 

“I don't think that'll be a problem," she says. "They're washin' me out.”

He's silent for a moment, long enough that she has to readjust her grip on her surfboard. “Why?”

“Naia Barros says I lack 'the necessary killer instinct'.”

He pulls his tinted glasses down to peer at her and in the pale light of dawn, his green eyes are grey-tinged and otherworldly. Annie doesn't think he means for the gesture to be seductive, but it is. Given the wind has shifted just enough that she can _smell_ the rum, this is a little alarming. 

“I can't tell if you're upset and not," Finnick says finally.

Annie shrugs. “Maybe I'm not.”

“Now _that's_ a sure sign you should be out. Can't have our Careers being ambivalent. Could get _awkward_.” Then Finnick laughs, the sound breathy and devoid of humour. “You're looking offended. Have I offended you, Cresta?"

They're washing her out, she thinks. She doesn't have to worry about mentors or alliances or strategies. She studied his, though. His looks were a gift from his parents and he'd repaid them by folding them into his interview. Such a gorgeous boy, so beautiful and cheeky and daringly young, with just enough of the _good boy_ in his concern for his folks to give him depth. A heady combination. A winning one, as it turned out. 

It'd been unsettling as hell, because she _knew_ the Odairs. She'd even been working on her momma's boat during the search for the crews caught out in the storm which'd taken Adeney's life. A year later, Finnick had volunteered and Annie had seen the looks on his folks' faces. She doesn’t think she'll ever forget. 

Finnick hasn't stepped foot in Fishery 8 since their funeral. She hasn't forgotten the look on his face then, either. 

“They kinda have to drag you into training. Don't want to help anyone else win?" she asks, finally. _Use a feint even when you don't plan on attacking, see how your opponent reacts_. 

Finnick shoves his shades back up his nose and crosses his arms. “Like I said, you don't seem that upset.”

Annie doesn't want to die. She doesn't want anyone else to die in her place. Being declared _not good enough_ had her crying herself to sleep last night, but she doesn't want to die. She watched Tide's skull be put on a spike in front of the Cornucopia a few weeks ago. She doesn't want to have her head on a spike on national television as her family watches. And now she's not going to – another girl will volunteer even if her name is called, because she washed out and never completed her training and 4 plays the game to win. And Pearl or Oriana or Yoko or Cota will, according to the odds, die. 

Not that she's going to say any of that to Panem's youngest victor. 

“I worked out my options,” is what she comes up with. “And I didn't like them.” 

“What, fame and fortune not your style? Dying, though, that you can't escape,” he adds grandly, as if imparting wisdom.

“Maybe I don't want to end up like you,” she snaps. “What _happened_ to you, Finnick?” 

He bares his teeth in an expression that's probably supposed to be a grin. “I won.” He jumps to his feet and she only notices that she's swung her surfboard in between them once she's finished moving. For a long moment, he just looks at her. She wants to say 'studies'.

Then he smiles. “I think I'll be off now, Miss Cresta. Enjoy your surf, but I think there's a hurricane on the way? Never mind. I'm sure you'll be fine. Have a good day.” Finnick tips an imaginary hat at her and strolls away down the boardwalk.

Annie stares after him, and thinks that the only thing she knows for certain about Finnick Odair is that the little boy who once stole his brother's hat for her has been gone for a long, long time. 

 

iii.

 

Annie's surrounded by flowers, wind chimes and lights. It's the lights which make her close her eyes: if she can't see the Capitol, then maybe she's not here. If she cups her hands around her ears to catch the sound of her blood, then she can pretend she's on her front porch, listening to the sea as her brother's wind chimes dance and sing. 

She doesn't jump when Finnick gracefully drops himself onto the bench next to her, but she _does_ startle and shoot him a long look.

“I'm gonna take a guess,” Finnick starts, sounding more like a boy from 4 than he has for years. He shifts his weight to get his perch comfortable and continues. “When you said you were fine, you left off somethin'.” 

“Oh. Really. Did I?” Annie says, gazing back over the city. She can't hear the ocean anymore, but at least the roof of the Tribute Centre has a good view. “Wonder what that was.”

“Dunno,” he replies. “It's just a guess. _You_ could tell me, though.” 

She swallows. She could. She has a mouth, still has her tongue. Except she can't. She can't even look at him. 

The wind shifts, and the chimes sound almost tangled until they settle into a new direction. The wind shifts, and she can smell Finnick's perfume. It's something rich, like incense, and it's nice and it's **wrong**. He's sounding like he's from home as he sits there with shimmering skin and Capitol-clothes and the last time she saw him, she told him she didn't want to be like him but she doesn't want to die, she doesn't, and the girl from 9 (Thyme Granger, fourteen) cut the knees off the dummy like she was cutting grain and the other Careers...the other Careers....

“You know,” Finnick says, moving his long limbs so he's sitting on the bench properly, “it's okay t'be scared.” 

Slowly, Annie manages to turn her head to look at him. She doesn't answer.

Finnick glances at her, and under the fairylights his eyes are flecked with silver and blue. “You can use it,” he adds. 

She can't read him. He's sober, has been sober the entire time, which should be reassuring but she can't read him but sure, gosh, he's _pretty_ and she's noticing his eyes like they're important. 

Her giggle is high and sharp, but she manages to bite it back. “ _How?_ Gotta say, Odair, putting _off_ my death isn't...isn't that...” _appealing_ , she can't say. She can't say it'd be better to die at once. She doesn't want to die at all. 

And he keeps looking at her with a sea-gull's intentness. “You already know Naia's strategy for you and Reego. Do you want to hear mine? For you?” 

Even Annie can hear the emphasis he stressing: _my_ strategy for _you_. She can feel her mouth moving into an embarrassed smile but instead of making her feel worse, finally there is a spark of anger. She lets it warm her for a moment, carefully fanning it before opening her mouth and letting it lash out.

“Will you stop it, Finnick! I don't even know you. You've been avoiding coming to training for years, you've _never_ been back to Fishery 8, you were completely _off your face drunk_ last time I saw you. How can you sit there and, and, let me think that I'm even gonna survive for that long? I spent the entire day hangin' out with the kids who _are going to kill m_ -”

“On your way back home from the city,” Finnick interrupts, "the hurricane hit earlier than expected. It derailed a cargo train. How many hours did you spend on that train before you were rescued, Annie? How many people did you help get out?"

She stares at him.

Somewhere, beneath the sound of the wind and the chimes, she can hear a tiny alarm ring. Finnick barely glances at his watch before turning it off, before focusing those piercing eyes back on her. 

The train-wreck of a boy she knew two years ago is gone. The charming sexpot she knows from her television is gone. Even the easy-going mentor she met on the train yesterday is gone. She's not sure who is in their place, only that he is staring at her with the kind of conviction which runs ships through hurricanes. 

_And how did he even know...?_

“I trust you, Annie Cresta,” Finnick says. “You're tough. You know how to survive. You know how to hang on and when to take risks. You're trained. Question is, are **you** gonna trust me?”

She swallows, unable to look away. “Yes," she whispers. Then, louder: “Help me. Please.”

Finnick grins, and somehow he doesn't look any less intense. “Okay, Annie. Here's what we're gonna do...” 

 

iv.

 

She's not on 4's tribute train. She's not huddled in the bathtub in her compartment as the shower runs cool. She doesn't have her hands over her ears. She can't hear Tulla calling her and knocking on the door. She can't hear anything but the ocean. She is surrounded by nothing but water. And she is safe. 

She is safe. 

She is-

“Annie?”

Finnick. She is going to ignore him, because she's not on a train on her Victory Tour, she is far, far away, and all she can hear is-

“Mind if I join you?” 

“You left me,” Annie says without moving her hands, without opening her eyes, without doing anything except speak and curl her toes underneath the ruined edge of her dress. “Asshole.” 

She thinks he's laughing. At least, his voice sounds breathy and hitched before he gasps. “ _Why_ is the water cold?”

She opens her eyes. 

It's the image of a hundred thousand fantasies in Capitol and District alike, _Finnick Odair_ sitting in a girl's bathtub. The two dozen buttons on his long jacket undone, his scarf undone and slung around his neck, his hair undone, everything so _undone_ including himself. He has his long legs hooked over the side of the bath and is in the process of trailing his arm across the other side like he's sitting on a lounge, of moving his head back to lean against the wall, of pretending everything is going to plan. 

“The ocean's cold,” Annie says, and reaches up behind her to turn on the rest of the shower. The sprinklers run the length of the bath, and Finnick starts to splutter. “You stink.”

He lets his head thump against the wall. “Yep,” he says. “Excellent observation skills.” 

She wants to scream at him. Cry. Swear. Say something cutting and witty because this is District 8 and she couldn't stop laughing at dinner. She'd started giggling at the speech, in front of all those people, and it'd been like this in 9 and 10. And 12. There are snakes crawling across her face when she tries to sleep and she couldn't walk down the stairs because if she did her legs would splinter and he'd had to carry her and she has the other seven districts to go and he's fucking off. Flirting and leaving her alone at the party because all Tulla does is act cheerful and give her coffee and he reeks of alcohol and perfume and body odour and he'd said he'd help her and he has, he has for months, except for where he doesn't and she can't predict him and he _left her alone at the party and she couldn't stop laughing_. 

Instead, she breathes. “I can't do this.” 

Finnick rolls his head to look at her and he's not laughing. He's not even amused. He just looks thoughtful. Maybe even a bit sad. “Tulla wants to put you on morphling.” 

“...why?”

“Standard procedure. You said you didn't want to be me. Does that still hold?”

Annie sits up as she tries to work out if she missed some interconnecting words (she's been doing that, too). “Yes,” she says finally. She's too exhausted to be diplomatic, and his fans in the Capitol had been **terrifying**. “It does.” 

She can't read his face. “Okay. C'mere?” Finnick's hand turns upwards in invitation. 

Scooting over to accept the hug had been easier in her head (even if a 'hug' hadn't exactly been the fantasy in question). She winds up having to bunch up her ruined pink gown so her bare legs are hooked over the edge of the tub next to his, which takes some slipping and sliding and an elbow that's going to bruise. But she manages it, and her arm snakes around his back as she rests her head on his shoulders and chest. 

It's not comfortable. Finnick's body is hard with muscle and the edge of the bath bites into her calves. This close, the alcohol smell is stronger, except it's still not strong enough to cover the musky scent of sex. But his arm curls around her and he drops his head to hers and it's.... nice, being held. 

“You left me,” Annie says, softly. It's more of a question now: Why? 

“I had to.” Finnick's arm tightens as she starts to move her head to look up at him and she stops, even as her eyes narrow in sharp reassessment. “We're entertainment, Annie. You never get out of the arena, you never stop this tour. Ever. They own you. You have to...do what they want. Do you understand?”

She doesn't know. Her mind always seems so heavy after her fits of hysteria, like her thoughts are trying to run up a sand dune, and she can't put all the clues of Finnick together. “What's your plan?” she asks instead of answering. 

His voice a whisper, Finnick says, “Keep it up. Keep laughing. Keep losing track of what's going on. Keep panicking.”

“Everyone thinks I'm _crazy_ ,” she hisses back.

“If you're damaged goods, then they return you. They won't want you. Around.” He adds the last word as if trying to hide something and she thinks, even through the sea-fog-soup of her brain, she's starting to understand what. 

_They won't want you._

And her dresses have been so lovely...

“What about you?” Annie asks. “Can't we...do somethin'?”

“Don't worry about me. I can handle it.”

Given how often she's seen him drunk the past few years, she doubts it. But even if he's the most confusing person she knows, she does know him. He has his pride. So instead of arguing, Annie shifts slightly until she can link her hands together, like she's trying to keep him from drifting away.

“Like you said before. We're from Fishery 8. We don't leave people to drown.” Except in the games she did. But before her breathing can get too shaky, Finnick rubs his hand along her upper arm, the movement soothing and protective. 

“I've got a plan,” he begins, and she shakes her head.

“Later. Please. I just...I wanna pretend things are okay. Just give me five more minutes.”

“Okay. We can do that,” Finnick says. She's not sure if he actually kisses the top of her head or if she made it up, but she'll take it either way. 

 

v.

 

“An accident,” Annie repeats, very carefully. “It was an _accident?_ ”

From the other side of her kitchen door, she hear Finnick moving. She can almost picture him: hands going to his hair in frustration, the huddled set to his shoulders. She doesn't want to picture him. 

“Annie,” Finnick says and damn him, she can hear the waver to his voice. 

“How do you _accidentally_ seduce someone?” Her voice cracks. “Because, I thought you put in some...thought. Into it. Like you cared. About me. Which really kinda doesn't match 'accident' and how could you do all, all _that_ if you didn't **care**...” 

If she presses her hands to her eyes, she won't cry. But nothing can stop the way her cheeks are burning with humiliation, or the way her mouth keeps twitching into an embarrassed smile, or that she really, really wants to cry. Again. 

“No, no no, Annie, that's not. That's not what I meant, please. I'm sorry.” 

He sounds sincere. Really upset. He **is** upset, she thinks; certainly, he'd looked like shit when he knocked on her door. But he's so good at appearing _sincere_. 

But he's her friend. 

But he'd kissed her. Kissed her until she hadn't been able to think straight (and she'd wanted him so much and she'd never, ever been kissed like that before) then left her naked in the victors' boathouse because he'd pulled his pants on and fled. 

But they've been helping each other since her games. He can calm down her hysterics and terrified confusion and she can rouse him out of those dark, dark moods that leave him dull-eyed and exhausted.

But he hurt her. 

“Sorry for which bit, Finnick? Fucking me or runnin' off?” She takes a deep breath and aims for a disbelieving laugh. It strangles in her throat. “Because I've, I've seen how you treat p-people in the Capitol when you're bored of their comp-company.”

“...I panicked.” Finnick's voice is quiet, strangely fragile. 

Annie can feel herself staring into her kitchen incredulously. She swallows, tilts her head back and lets it rest against the door. It's an answer. She can work with an answer.

“Panicked?” she asks, brushing the tears from her eyes so she can see properly. When he doesn't reply, she tries to prompt him. “Why?”

He's not silent, he just doesn't speak. She can hear him breathe, hear the rustling of his clothes. His breathing is uneven, heavy and she wants to see what his face is doing. She doesn't move. The door was her idea. She's lost control over her expression and he's too good at reading and hiding, and if he'd thought nothing of her, she'd wanted whatever protection she could find. 

The odds are, she's starting to think, in favour of him still caring, but she's feeling too vulnerable to open the door further. 

Finally, Finnick inhales deeply and speaks again. “I fucked up. And, I don't... You're my friend. I don't want to lose that.” His voice is choppy, like the sea in a strong wind, but the Career part of her mind still thinks in terms of strategies, alliances, deceptions. 

It's not as if men can't be cruel. And he is, in the Capitol. 

_Nothing ventured, nothing gained_ , Annie thinks. “It wasn't very friendly of you. Any of it.” 

He doesn't answer. She lets the silence run out until it eventually catches him. “I, I know. I don't, I _didn't_ know what to do.” There's a pause and then, his voice softer still, he says, “I'm sorry.”

He doesn't sound like a man caught out, trying to make excuses. She knows that tone very well, thanks to Pacifico Darby back in Fishery 8. Finnick doesn't sound like that. He sounds younger. Scared. 

Annie moistens her lips, throat suddenly feeling dry. “In the Capitol, though. The people you... walk out with?” Some he has no choice with. She's known that since her Tour. But he has to have liked some of them. They are the most beautiful, accomplished, quick-witted people in the _country_...

Finnick breathes out something that never strengthens into a laugh. “A show. None of it's _real_. I don't... You're real.”

 _I don't know what to do,_ he said. Annie hesitates, then crawls to the edge of her kitchen door to peer around it. Finnick's sitting in a miserable huddle, his hands in his hair and his face mostly hidden by his knees. She swallows and retreats, but only slightly. 

“Before you, uh, finished takin' off my clothes,” Annie says, “you said you wanted me. That that's why you were kissing me. That true?”

He breathes in and out twice before answering. “Yes.”

Carefully, Annie moves back to the edge of the door and leans out around it.

“Do you still? Want me?”

Finnick looks up, dropping his hands and twisting his head to look at her. He looks worse than when she let him in, eyes red and face drawn into fine, fragile lines. She smiles and hopes he reads tentative hope instead of mockery or laughter or anything else that so many other people read. 

“Yes,” he says again. “I do. Annie, I-”

“I, um. Dinner's traditional.”

He raises his eyebrows. Not much, it's more of a suggestion than an actual expression and he still looks like he either wants to run or roll over onto his back with his neck bared, but it's something normal. “For an apology?”

She nods. “Yeah. And, or, a... declaration of intent.” 

Finnick stares at her and she can't tell if he looks scared or hopeful, or both. “Of...intent,” he repeats, carefully.

“I don't, um, have sex. In boathouses. Unless I'm serious about someone?” Maybe she should have stayed behind the door, she can feel her cheeks burning. “And. You're my friend. But I don't know what else is...going on.” 

“Neither do I.” It's said with a smile, and maybe he was trying to get that smile to be bright and carefree. But his voice is quiet and the smile doesn't work, and he drops it to study his twisting fingers. “It's. It's complicated, Annie.” 

“A lot of things are complicated with you,” Annie says, the dryness in her voice surprising her. “I think I'm getting' used to it.” 

“I'm sorry,” he starts again, and then stops himself when he looks at her. “I can make you lunch. And I can explain. I can explain a little.”

“That'd be good.” Annie takes a breath and then crawls over to him. His only movement is to lower his legs to the ground, and his sheer care in doing so speaks of how deliberate the gesture is. “Hi.”

“Hey,” Finnick says. He glances at his hands and then back at her. “I don't...know what I'm doing. But I'll try not to do that again. The running off.” 

She smiles. “I'd like that.” Then she hesitates, moistens her lips nervously (and notices as his eyes follow her mouth before he snaps them back up) and adds, “Are, uh. Hugs still on the table?”

His face does something complicated she can't read and he opens up his arms. “C'mere?”

Annie crawls over the rest of the way and settles herself against him, one arm going around his waist as she rests her head against his shoulder. Finnick wraps his arms around her, presses a kiss to the top of her head, and it feels like things are making just a little more sense again. 

 

\+ i. 

 

It's another one of those cold, humid days where nothing quite works in a week of them, and so she's not surprised Finnick's post-Capitol edginess has stuck around longer than normal. He'd walked into her house bearing gifts (a book by 1's premier glassware designer for her collection, several strings of white pearls, and a hairpiece scattered with black pearl and multicoloured garnet flowers which is gorgeously gaudy; she carefully doesn't think about where she might have seen the hairpiece before), placed his hat firmly on her head, and otherwise kept his distance. 

Annie'd adjusted the cap so it sat better, offered to get him something to eat and drink (he declined), put the jewellery on her coffee table and firmly set herself down in an armchair. Finnick had the sofa. He'd sat in the middle like he wanted to lounge, but his hands are clasped between his knees and his hair has been tousled with more nerves than fashionable intent. 

She watches him for a moment, then carefully doesn't. “Do you want me to talk, or just be around?” she asks. 

Finnick is quiet for a moment. “I, I'm not really good with conversation at the moment,” he says. “But my place is too quiet.”

“I can read? I mean, you even got me a book...”

He grins and for a moment, his smile lights up the room and makes his eyes bright and clear. It doesn't last long, but there are days, weeks, where he doesn't really smile at all. “If....you could?”

So that's what Annie does. She starts from the grandiose dedication and works her way through. By the end of the first chapter, Finnick has managed to swing his legs up and sprawl back against her couch, one arm under his head as he watches her. 

She keeps reading. When the language begs for it, she adds an exaggerated tone here and there, and occasionally she pauses to note an idea that she could use with her own glasswork. She keeps reading and she pretends not to notice when he gets up off the couch and walks over. She pretends not to notice as he sits down at her feet, shifts to get comfortable, and then leans against her legs. It's the unspoken rules of dealing with Finnick when he's like this, so it's only when his hand lightly clasps her ankle that she opens her mouth.

“Can I stroke your hair?” she asks. 

Finnick doesn't answer beyond a nod, but with permission granted, she drops her hand to his hand and carefully starts to run her fingers through the bronze waves. His hair is soft, too soft for any styling product, but she'd seen when he walked in that he'd managed at least managed to tint his eyelids. Small steps at putting himself back together. 

She strokes his hair and keeps reading from her book, but attempting to turn the page without moving her hand from his head makes the book tumble to the floor. 

“Oh, damn,” Annie mutters.

Finnick leans over to grab it, but when he passes the book back to her, he slides his hand up to lightly grasp hers. 

“Annie,” he begins and for a long moment, that's all he says. He stares into her eyes, as if trying to find something, and his mouth curves into something that's almost, but not quite, a wry smile. “I missed you.”

It isn't the first thing he thought of saying, or probably even the third, but that doesn't make his statement any less true. 

“I know,” Annie says, softly. “I missed you, too.” Which is just as true as his statement, even if his trips to the Capitol around Harvest Festival and Victory Tour time are so much shorter the actual Hunger Games. She'd told herself today she'd work on her commissions in her workshop, but he shuts his eyes and rests his forehead against her knees and she knows this mood, she knows _him_ , and Finnick's more important than any client in the Capitol. So she adds, “I can just hang around here with you, if you wanted.”

Finnick doesn't answer straight away, but then he sighs and relaxes against her. “Thank you,” he says. 

She thought that'd be his answer, so Annie just runs her fingers through his hair and says, “You're welcome, love.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [You Don't Want to Get This Way](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3360611) by [JK Ashavah (ashavah)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashavah/pseuds/JK%20Ashavah)




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